


Farming in Fillory

by Good Purple Herring (PurpleHerring)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, actual character development, cw: child abuse, cw: homophobia, cw: panic attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleHerring/pseuds/Good%20Purple%20Herring
Summary: Teaching the Fillorians to farm is more difficult than Eliot expected- and not just because they don't know anything about farming.Takes place during Season 2, Episode 2.





	1. Vinegar

**Author's Note:**

> Given that in Season 3 we see that the thing Eliot fears most in the world is still his father (and he calls his family 'the worst human beings possible'), I'm betting that harkening back to his childhood memories wasn't an easy thing for Eliot to do, and it was sort of glossed over/made into a joke so I wanted to explore that more.
> 
> I also wanted to flesh out Eliot and Fen's relationship more (and upfront- no, it's not an Eliot/Fen love story. It's primarily a story of how they get to know and respect each other despite this fucked up situation).
> 
> Also, while I grew up rural, Midwestern, and queer at approximately the same time as Eliot, my parents were NOT farmers, so while I'm trying to be decently accurate with the farming and building, I can't grow crops or build sheds.
> 
> And I'm still learning how AO3 works; I haven't written, much less posted, any fanfic in over 10 years. Give an old lady some slack.

Truth be told, Eliot was completely smashed by the time they’d arrived at the first farm in Fillory. (And to anyone who declared that was his natural state, Eliot would remind them that there was a difference between tastefully inebriated and drunk). Fen was her usual obsequious self. He didn’t have a _problem_ with Fen, exactly, she was just way too sincere. It sort of creeped Eliot out.

Plus she didn’t know anything about him, so there was that. When he’d talked about the farm, she’d just given him this slight confused look that basically said ‘I don’t see how this could in any way raise strong negative emotions in you’. It was about the same level of annoying as the gay men who’d spent their entire lives in New York City or San Francisco and couldn’t conceive of his life except in a ‘makes a great backstory for queer drama on TV’ or ‘if I get this guy to spill his trauma then I can play gay mentor and rescue him while we bang’ sort of way.

He hid that shit for a reason.

Speaking of shit, this was the saddest farm he had ever seen.

“Okay,” Eliot started, stepping out of the royal carriage without falling down (a feat that required more of his attention than would be appropriate to disclose) and turning his attention to the sad, neglected patch of dirt that had a few straggling shoots of something that Eliot couldn’t identify as crops or weeds.

 _‘How do you even manage to_ be _this bad at farming? It’s not that hard to put seeds in the ground and water them once in a while.’_

\---

“It’s not that hard, boy!” Even when he was seven, Eliot had already learned to wince whenever he heard his father’s voice, “Maybe if you spent less time in the kitchen like a little faggot and more time outside, you wouldn’t wilt like a ~delicate little flower~ the minute you were asked to do a little bit of work!”

He already knew better than to say his mother worked harder than his dad ever did, so instead Eliot said nothing as he carried another brick to the trailer and put it into place, his arm muscles straining under the weight. And he 100% knew better than to say he’d rather smell fresh bread than cow shit. Sometimes, it was alright when Eliot didn’t say anything. His father would keep ranting and eventually tire himself out.

Sometimes, like today, it wasn’t.

“What, too good to answer me?” His father said with a sneer, “I’m tired of your attitude. Pick that up.” He pointed to the concrete block Eliot had loaded onto the wooden trailer. Eliot didn’t see why they needed to build a new storage shed instead of buying one like _normal_ people. After he did, his father continued, “Since you can’t figure out something as simple as how to put things on a trailer, I’m behind schedule again. I’m taking the trailer into town, and by the time I’m back all the materials had better be out on site.”

“But there’s no way to carry them-” Eliot blurted without thinking. That was easily a hundred blocks!

“You have arms. Use them.”

His father never said ‘or else’. His father didn’t _need_ to say ‘or else’.

\---

“Eliot?” Fen’s voice broke through the haze, as well as the window of the royal carriage, which Eliot hadn’t even realized he’d climbed back into. His hands were gripping the door that he’d shut behind him, their palms clammy around the handle, and he felt disturbingly like he’d spent too much time in the Flying Forest. Also, being able to breathe would be nice. Why couldn’t he breathe? Was the air in Fillory unbreathable without magic? Were all the Fillorians going to suffocate instead of starve? Maybe it was the same reason his heart had decided it wanted to run a marathon instead of live in his chest. Some sort of oxygen related… thing.

“Yes, dear wife?” Eliot asked, sticking his head out of the carriage with his most charming fake smile plastered on his face, “I’ll be out in a second, I just forgot something.” Now what did he forget? His hands roamed the carriage. Come on, there had to be something in here…

There we go.

He threw the door open and held the object in front of him with a proud look on his face.

It was Tick Pickwick who spoke first, “Excuse me, Sire, but may I inquire as to why you are holding what appears to be part of the carriage cleaning kit?”

“Well,” Eliot answered, descending the stairs with the theatrical flair he’d honed over the years, holding the large skein aloft and looking around at the gathered collection of Fillorian faces. The gauntness in their faces didn’t knock away the memories, but it was a good reminder that they had memories of their own. What kind of King would refuse to help his people because he didn’t like how he grew up?

 _‘Fake it until you make it, Eliot.’_ His life’s motto, really. Well, that and ‘never be caught dead in a sweatshirt because they are terrible’ (unless you were Quentin Coldwater for some odd reason).

“Because, Tick, the carriage cleaning kit happens to include a skein of vinegar, which we can use to test the soil because somehow I doubt there’s a Tractor Supply down the street.” Blank looks.

“Test the soil for what?” That was one of the farmers.

Oh boy.

“Okay, ladies, gentlemen and… um, bear?” Was he drunk, or was this a Fillory thing? It was disturbing how often that question didn’t have a clear answer. Not important, “Gather in. Let’s talk about alkaline and acidic soil…”

This was going to be a long trip.


	2. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin Shops at Target. Fen Stabs a Butterfly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure Eliot-23 and Margo-23 tried the Rhinemann on the original Beast since Beast!Q didn’t happen until magic was shut off and E!23 and M!23 wouldn’t have been looking for the spell if they couldn’t cast it.
> 
> Given Fillory’s royal marriage conventions, I see it as sort of a ‘bisexuality/bi-romanticism default’ culture.
> 
> Also I’m a very homosexual female and have zero attraction to men so I’m trying to write it realistically but have no experience in this particular headspace.

_The existence of Quentin Coldwater was_ grossly _unfair. Eliot had spent his entire post-adolescent life sculpting himself into a living aesthetic masterpiece and Q could roll out of bed and stuff himself into a pair of jeans and a hoodie and somehow look amazingly attractive instead of like a sloppy asshole. Even his hair was floppy and looked good. Eliot had spent years learning which haircut worked with his curls and which products to use (as a child his parents had taught him to_ brush _his hair; the results had been predictably horrid)._

 _“_ What _are you wearing?” Eliot asked Q with a snort seeing him come down the Cottage stairs, swirling his drink in his hand as he lounged back on the couch._

_“What? What’s wrong with this?” Quentin pulled at the sweatshirt in both hands and tilted his head down to look at it._

_“Oh, honey,” Eliot said, “What isn’t wrong with that? Come on. Back upstairs.” Q sputtered something like ‘wait what’ as Eliot pushed him up the stairs, “”Up. Up.”_

_“You know, I still don’t see what the problem is.” Quentin grumbled as he opened the door to his room._

_“I know. You are so lucky you have me. There is zero chance I could let you go to the first meeting of Magicians on Mars in a… is that hoodie from Target?”_

_“What’s wrong with Target?” Quentin asked._

_“Just trust me. Off.” Eliot demanded, slipping his hands under the sweatshirt and pulling it over Quentin’s head, paying a little too much attention to how Q smelled and how his chest felt beneath the thin fabric of the T-shirt._

_The T-shirt which was also terrible, “Oh, Q, what are we going to do with you?” On the other hand, any excuse to take off another layer of Q’s clothing was welcome, and Eliot couldn’t resist placing a small kiss on Q’s exposed collarbone, enjoying how he could feel the stress releasing from Q’s muscles. The small sigh from the other man didn’t hurt either, and neither did watching Q face as he closed his eyes and relaxed._

_Eliot could live on the look of Q finally letting himself relax; the man obviously needed it._

_Reluctantly, he pulled back and gave Q a smile, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”_

_“Is he though?”_

_Eliot whirled around._

_“I wonder if you’re going to break his neck too? Or will you do something more interesting like use those sad little spells you tried to learn?” Mike’s head sat at a 90 degree angle on his neck, his brown eyes looking at Eliot sidewise with a contemplating look, “Don’t get me wrong, after 40 tries at this, I’m impressed you all can still surprise me.”  Mike leaned forward, his head swiveling forward but keeping that same wrong tilt, pairing it with a smile that stretched too far and threatened to wrap all the way up into his ears._

_“Will it be a surprise when you kill him? It’d almost be worth leaving him alive to see that.” Mike said, rising from the chair, “Or you. Poor little betrayed Quentin. I was kind of disappointed I didn’t get to see you blow Margo’s face off, but I’m sure this will make up for it. I do love watching people kill their loved ones. The looks of shock never get old.”_

_“Stay away from me,” Eliot said, disappointed to feel that his voice was shaking as he stepped away. He was alone in the room; wherever Q was, Eliot hoped he was safe, “This is just a dream.”_

_“Oh, you know better than that.” Mike said, eyes glowing blue, “You know what this is. Did you_ really _think you could hide from me? In Fillory?”_

_Oh fuck._

_Was running away an option? Eliot liked when running away was an option. Unfortunately, running away required a door, or a window, and it seemed like Quentin’s room lacked both at the moment._

 

\---

 

“ELIOT!”

Eliot shot up in the dark, gasping for breath, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.” He repeated over and over. Breathing was good. Breathing was important. He inhaled and looked around. The royal tent. Of course. Eliot hated camping, but if he had to, there were worse ways to do it than as Fillorian royalty. They had actual beds, the tent was made of silk, and most importantly right now the enchantments which kept sound from leaving without the express wish of the High King still worked.

The fire outside flickered, throwing shadows across the walls of the tent. Including…

“Fen?” He asked, his eyes settling on one of the tent poles. Or more accurately, on the blue butterfly that had been pinned to it with what seemed to be a very, very sharp dagger, “Did you stab a butterfly?”

“Oh Gods, Eliot.” Eliot let out an ‘oomph’ sound as about 120 pounds of woman threw her arms around his neck and pushed them back onto the bed, “Of course I did; it was crawling all over you, and you were…” His wife paused, “distressed. I tried to grab it, but it flew away so I threw one of my daggers at it.”

Well, that was a lot to process. First, the Beast knew where he was. Eliot was kicking himself. Of course: the Beast still had plenty of magic. He was the one who’d drained the Wellspring. And Q was always talking about how the Beast was obsessed with Fillory. Which was saying something, coming from Quentin.

Also Fen slept with _knives_. Plural. And had… eerily good aim with them.

Probably an important thing to know about your spouse.

He laughed a little, “That was a very Margo thing to do.”

“Is that good?” Fen asked.

Eliot squeezed the woman close to him. Bambi wasn’t much of a hugger, but it was different with Fen. She expected the physical affection, so he didn’t have to constantly wonder if it was a good idea or if he was sending the wrong idea, “It’s very good, Fen.” He told her, “Seriously. That’s exactly what I need right now. I’m okay.”

They sat quietly like that for a few moments, watching the dancing light of the fire and feeling each other’s breathing; Eliot’s slowly returning to a normal pace along with his heartbeat.

“Are you sure?” Fen pulled away, sitting herself on the bed next to him, “Sometimes it seems like you’re not really here. You just stop talking in the middle of a sentence, and sometimes you get sick behind some trees when you think nobody’s watching. The guards are concerned.”

Oh shit. People were noticing his dysfunction. That was rule #1 of being him: Don’t let people notice you're broken (except Bambi and Q).

“Yes. I’m fine.” He told her.

“You’re not a very good liar.” Fen told him, and Eliot blinked, “Eliot, I don’t know what’s going on, but you can trust me. I _want_ to help. The things you’re telling them are working. That strange thing where you mix the soil like cookie dough-”

“Tilling,” Eliot supplied and she nodded.

“The Northern Region hasn’t had any encouraging growth in _months_ and some crops are starting to grow. But with this-”

Eliot sighed and held up a hand to stop her. She was right. If his people thought he was crazy, they weren’t going to listen to him. And a lot of things about farm work sounded pretty damn crazy when you were teaching it to people who didn’t know what crop rotation was, “Yeah, you’re right.” He shifted on the bed to face her and took her hands in his own.

“I don’t want you to feel hurt, Fen.” He hedged.

“I _already_ feel hurt, Eliot.” She pushed back, “You’re a good King, and we’ve needed one for so long, and more importantly, you’re a good man. I don’t like seeing you like this. That already hurts.”

It was a fair point, but nobody in Eliot’s life was just so… there with their feelings. Eliot was surprised to find tears dancing at the edges of his eyes. Bambi was his other half, and Q carried a part of his soul, but Margo’s idea of emotional expression involved a lot of shouting or an overuse of the phrase ‘ovary up’ and Quentin could be used as the definition of ‘socially awkward’ in a picture dictionary.

“Right, so. You know how I told you that I grew up on a farm? That I’d suppressed the memories?” She nodded, though she had a slightly confused frown on her face, “Yeah, I didn’t do that because I have a deep-seated hatred of the smell of hay. I mean, I do, but that’s not the reason.” Eliot reached up and put his hands on her shoulders.

“I like men, Fen.” He told her, “I mean like… you know. Like them.” Eliot wasn’t sure how detailed he should be. Fen did grow up in what amounted to the Magical Middle Ages, “Intimately. Sexually.” He cleared his throat.

“Yes, I know.” She said, still looking confused.

Wait, what? “What?” Eliot’s voice echoed his mind.

“It’s pretty obvious. You look at the guards a _lot_ , and you clearly have certain… feelings… for King Quentin.” His wife said.

“Oh God.” Eliot put his hand to his face in a gesture that he refused to ever refer to as ‘facepalming’.

“I just don’t see what that has to do with anything? Or is it...Oooooh…” Fen said with an intake of breath, “You’re like Farvel.”

“Wait, who? Am I missing something in this conversation?” How was that even possible; it was _about him_.

“Farvel is a girl I knew growing up. She only liked one. You know, instead of both.” Fen said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Is that what all of this is about? That’s why you don’t like being intimate with me?”

“No, Fen, look, geez, it’s not that I don’t like it-” Eliot said. Since when was this what they were talking about? Weren’t they discussing something else? “It’s just I… prefer it. To a heavy degree.” Eliot admitted.

“Oh, thank the Gods.” Fen sighed in relief, and now it was _Eliot’s_ turn to give Fen a look of confusion, “I thought there was just something wrong with _me_. Is that normal on Earth? Only liking one? Seems strange.”

“Again, heavy preference. Kinsey 5.5, not 6.” He guessed. Eliot hadn’t really ever bothered defining it numerically.

She continued, “Well, we’ll work around that. Oh!” Fen sat up straighter with an excited look on her face, “I’ve always wanted to try one of those potions. You know, the switching ones. I could throw my daggers _so much farther_ if I had a male’s upper-body strength.” She frowned and her eyes trailed downwards, “Not so sure how I’d feel about that part, though. I feel like the ‘dangling to one side’ would be distracting.”

Well, at least Eliot wasn’t scared anymore. Instead, he was somewhere between ‘amused’ and ‘mortified’. Which was a normal mix of emotions for him. So it was actually kind of nice.

“Right. Yes.” Eliot cleared his throat, “We’ll talk about that. Um, but, back to the farm thing…” He said delicately.

“Of course.”

“You asked, so I’ll tell you. On Earth, a lot of people think it's only normal to like one. And pretty much only boy-girl. So when my family and community found out I wasn’t the biggest fan of the V… they… didn’t take it well. I was sort of beaten up pretty much every day of my life until I left.” He spilled it out quickly, “And my dad especially had certain… opinions. What I’m teaching all of you, it comes from him, so it’s just sort of complicated.”

“Oh.” Fen said, settling with him into a comfortable silence, placing her head on his shoulder. Her eyes tracked over to the blue butterfly, whose wings were still beating feebly. Then she sat up and kissed Eliot quickly, “Thank you for telling me. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it a secret. I know what to tell them. You just focus on being the High King and being Eliot.”

Eliot smiled and rested his head on top of hers, “Thank you, Fen. I’m glad you’re here.”

He was going to be so tired in the morning, but this was worth it.


	3. Interlude 1: Margo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo makes a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In true lazy fanfic plotting fashion, Margo gets the most plot-helpful Discipline.

It hadn’t taken long for Eliot to be comfortable sitting in front of a fire again. What was strange was how long it had taken for him to remember he enjoyed it; all his memories of campfires were tied up in his family so they’d been locked away along with the rest of his childhood. He hated camping, but it didn’t mean he hated  _ all _ of camping.

Thinking about it, it was kind of fucked up. His family and childhood community had been such mega-assholes that they’d even stolen the  _ good _ memories he’d had. It hadn’t just been them, though, Eliot reflected as he watched the fire dance and listened to it crackle. He’d mentioned his love of the quiet, of sitting around a fire alone and just  _ being _ in a way that Eliot thought most people didn’t experience post Industrial Revolution to his first post-Indiana boyfriend. He still remembered Matteo’s response, “It doesn’t sound like your childhood was  _ that _ bad.”

Fuck Matteo.

“Eliot?”

Eliot looked around, but nobody was with him at the campfire. Fen was in the tent, and the guards were following his instructions of keeping maximal distance while still doing their jobs. Besides, he knew that voice.

“Was there something in the stew? Am I hallucinating again?” He asked the air.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Eliot, it’s a spell.” Okay, so it actually was Bambi, “You know? From Brakebills? Since we’re all fucking magicians?” 100% Bambi.

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the fire, “So you can hear me, right? How about seeing?”

“Yeah, I can hear you.” She answered, “No seeing.  My Audiomancy’s good for this, but seeing would’ve needed Phosphoromancy and-”

“Yeah.” Eliot cut her off, knowing what she was going to say. Alice was smart as hell, and willing to help them out, and Q was fond of her for reasons that Eliot couldn’t understand (and Margo said had a lot to do with what Alice was packing underneath her turtlenecks), but that didn’t mean he wanted a late night conversation with her. Besides, he didn’t need to see Margo to know what she was doing.

“Right.” He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, “So what’s the situation, Bambi?”

“Well,” She said, “We got back to Brakebills a few days ago and-”

“A few days ago?” Eliot asked.

“Shit.” Bambi said, “I didn’t even ask. How long has it been in Fillory, El?”

“Two months. More or less.” He threw it in, but he knew exactly. It had been 63 days, 7 hours, and 23 minutes.

“Shit, El.” His best friend sounded both angry and empathetic. Which described Margo fairly well, “Fucking Fillory and its fucking time magic. I swear to you right now we are coming back for you even if I have to find some Necromancer to raise that Fillorian bitch and steal her fancy watch. We died 39 times trying to fix her family drama, she owes us.”

Eliot absolutely believed her. It was comforting. “Right well, speaking of Fillory, there’s some… issues here. Namely that magic is all kinds of broken and it sort of means everybody’s starving.”

“Fuck.” Margo exhaled. Eliot nodded, “So you’re in the middle of a Fillorian Holodomor?”

“I don’t know what that is.” He admitted.

“It was a manufactured famine, which you’d know if you ever read a book that wasn’t centered around cocktail recipes.” Margo responded, then paused to see if Eliot had anything else to add. When he didn’t, she continued, “So, our situation is it looks like there’s a spell that should take the Beast out.”

“Great,” Eliot replied, “So what’s the catch?” Because there was always a catch.

“The only person who had it is some pixie twat who decided that treating strong-as-fuck battle magic like the prize to our Scriberomancy Exam was appropriate. I want to stab this fucking card catalogue. We’re working on it.” 

Yeah, there it was. Eliot leaned forward, “Okay, so basically, you need time. We can do that.” Hopefully. Q would probably be disappointed if they saved Fillory but it was completely depopulated. Plus there was the whole ‘magic dying’ thing. 

“Mmmhmm.” Margo agreed, “Can’t kill the asshole with magic if there’s no magic.” There was a sound behind Margo and some muffled discussion, then a long-suffering sigh from Bambi, “It sounds like we might have found something. I should probably go.” She paused, “El-”

“I know, Bambi.” He told her gently, “I love you too, and I promise nothing will happen to me. I haven’t forgotten that you still owe me that drink in Ibiza next year.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop.” She promised as her voice faded. 

Eliot could feel when he was alone again, but this time, he had a smile on his face.


	4. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot smells bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter in two!

 

“I can’t wait to sleep in a house tonight,” Fen said as the carriage jostled them around. Eliot made a note to introduce the Fillorians to asphalt and how to construct roads that didn’t have a decent chance of giving those who rode on them a concussion.

Then he actually heard Fen’s words. He turned to look at her, “Um, don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of real roofs, honestly, but I feel like I’m missing something again.”

“We’ll be sleeping at home tonight, silly.” Fen said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, resting her head on Eliot’s shoulder.

Except that made no sense. They were several weeks’ ride away from Whitespire according to the map that Eliot kept rolled up in his things, “Is there some sort of shortcut to the castle I should be aware of?” Eliot asked her with a frown.

She looked like she was about to answer, but Fen was cut off by her name being called outside, and she immediately perked up and threw open the carriage door, jumping out of it with a squeal- and without waiting for the carriage to fully stop.

_ ‘Impressive.’ _ Eliot noted. He himself waited for the carriage to stop; his style was more ‘fashionably late’ than ‘jumping out of moving vehicles’. Climbing down, he looked around for Fen, seeing her with her arms around the neck of a man who was returning her affection with a hug of his own, squeezing her in a way that, for some reason, made Eliot’s heart constrict and a lump form in his throat.

It was probably just tonsillitis. Of course Eliot had no tonsils, but maybe Fillory regrew them.

After what had to be a solid minute, Fen and the man separated and Eliot got a good look at him.

His father-in-law.

Of course. Home. He hadn’t even remembered where Fen had lived. So what if she wasn’t to his taste sexually? That shouldn’t excuse him from showing her basic human decency- like knowing some things about her life.

_ ‘Wow, I really do suck. Good job, Eliot.’ _

“Your Majesty.” His father-in-law bowed, which just made it worse. Eliot probably wouldn’t have felt less majestic if a pigeon had shat on him right now.  _ ‘Which is not a suggestion.’ _ He hastily added, in case there was some sort of psychic bird flying overhead.

Eliot cleared his throat, “Yeah, you… don’t have to do that. It’s sort of weird.”

“Oh Gods, I have to go check on the duck nest!” Fen stood on her tiptoes and kissed her father on the cheek before running off in a random direction, completely missing Eliot’s half-raised hand and begging look. 

His father-in-law watched Fen run away and then turned back to look at Eliot, “As you wish, your Majesty.”

“You really don’t have to do that either. Eliot is fine.” Which led to another awkward pause as Eliot realized he didn’t even know his father-in-law’s name, “So… what was your name again?” He almost managed not to wince asking. This was not going well.

“Dint.” The man answered, then gestured for Eliot to follow him inside, “I’ll show you to your room. There’s probably about…” Dint looked up at the sky and squinted, “2 hours before dusk, we’ll eat then.”

There wasn’t really much to do except follow him.

The inside of the house was homier than Eliot had remembered, but also it was a house that seemed… empty in a way.  The furniture was spartan, made of a combination of wood and stone, and he had to stoop to fit through the doorways. Still, there was something about it that made Eliot simultaneously want to sit down and never leave and run away to never return at the same time.

“The Beast still plagues Fillory.” Dint noted as they walked through another doorway, leading into a cozy room with a couple of open windows, a featherbed, a nightstand, and a carved five-drawer dresser. Fen’s bedroom. This he did remember.

The Beast.

_ ‘Well, look at it this way, Eliot. Maybe if you tell him how spectacularly you all fucked up, he’ll want an annulment.’ _ The thought didn’t make him feel better.

“Yeah, there was a little hiccup with the plan.” Eliot said cautiously, walking over to the other side of the bed and looking over it at the older man. Dint’s eyes were watchful, his hands were in his pockets.

“Hiccup?” The man asked.

High Kings didn’t squirm, but that didn’t mean Eliot didn’t want to. 

“We were betrayed. Someone King Quentin thought was a friend,” Because despite Q’s babbled excuses, no friend would steal the magician killing knife and make a deal with the monster who was trying to kill them all. Eliot was no expert on friendship, but he was pretty sure ‘teaming up with someone who’d killed your friend 39 times’ wasn’t on the list of things friends did, “took the knife and left with The Beast.”

Disconcertingly, Dint didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between them, becoming heavy enough that Eliot found his mouth spilling open again of its own volition, “We’re looking for something else to use, a spell, and look, I know. I know we kind of suck and we seem to be screwing things up all the time and that knife took forever to make and we lost it but believe me I super appreciate all the work that went into it and I accept that it is 100 percent our fault that magic is wonky in Fillory and that you are all starving and I  _ swear _ to you we’re going to fix our fuck up and-”

“Eliot.” Huh. Until Dint said his name, Eliot hadn’t realized he was holding his hands up in front of him, or that he’d moved himself to put as much distance between him and his father-in-law as possible. 

The older man sat on the edge of the bed with a grunt. He was quiet again for a moment.

“I know. I believe you.” Dint said. As though it was the simplest thing in the world to say.

“Wait, what?” This was new. Just like that? No ‘Eliot, you’re a fuck up’, or ‘No shit this is your fault, you can’t do anything right’ or ‘ _ You’re _ going to fix it? You can’t even change a tire’? “Okay, is this some kind of trap?” Eliot asked suspiciously.

His father-in-law put his hands on his knees and pushed himself into a standing position, “Come with me.”

Oh, that was helpful. A complete non-answer. And apparently Dint didn’t believe in conjunctions or complex sentences. Eliot found himself trailing along behind awkwardly as they ducked through doorways and outside until they reached the forge. The room was oppressively hot; Eliot could feel himself baking (and not in the pleasant way like when he was in a sauna), and steam hissed through the air.

“Do you know how long it took to forge the Leo Blade?” Dint asked.

Oh, here it comes. ‘You don’t appreciate hard work, how could you? You do whatever you can to avoid it. Sissy.’  “Okay, look,” Eliot started in an apologetic tone, “I know it was a lot of work and-”

“40 years.” The man interrupted with the answer, “Decades to forge the blade. Decades of waiting for the Gods to bring you back.”

That was unexpected. Dint didn’t think that it was their fault for not showing up?

“The point being, a few extra months or years isn’t the end of the world, Eliot.” Dint said in a calm tone, “Fillory is a land of magic. And magic cares very little for plans or how you expect things to happen.”

Eliot’s mouth dropped open, “Oh.” Was all he could think of to say.

“Those of us who live here are tougher than you think, Child of Earth.”  Dint continued. The older man looked out the window and grunted again, “30 minutes to supper.” He noted, “You can help prepare the table.”

With that, the older man once again started walking, and Eliot once again trailed behind, this time following Dint towards the kitchen, where the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat made Eliot’s mouth water.

Neither of them said anything more on the subject as Dint started chopping fruits and directing Eliot to where things were kept in the home. It was domestic, but not… bad. That was also new. Silence could be comfortable. It could be good. Eliot could understand why Fen still called this place home, and why she’d been so happy to come back.

Huh. A place you wanted to go back to. That welcomed you and didn’t demand a constant performance. That was definitely worth protecting.

Eliot would buy his friends all the time they needed, if Fillory had places like this.


	5. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot eats a steak. Fen hits a fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for violence.
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I could tinker with it forever and I like the events.

The bread and meat was surprisingly delicious, given that the meat was only seasoned with salt and pepper and the bread was just your average ‘throw it in the oven until it’s just about to be burnt’ loaf.  Doubly so since there wasn’t any wine (or alcohol at all, actually).

“Oh my God,” Eliot said right after he swallowed a bite, already reaching for another with his fork, “How did you learn to cook like this?” He looked between his wife and father-in-law, “Is this why Josh was always yammering on about food magic?” And here Eliot had thought that only one kind of ‘baking’ worked well with magic.

“My mother made potions for the whole village.” Fen explained, “And everyone knows that potion-makers are the best cooks. They’re patient, pay attention to their ingredients, and know when to throw things out and start over.” 

Dint nodded, “Vingra taught me to make a proper steak.” He made a grunt that could possible have been one of amusement? Eliot wasn’t entirely sure, “Should’ve seen how I was eating it before.”

Steam. Hm. Eliot picked at his plate, forgoing eating in favor of chasing the thought that was swimming at the edge of his mind but that he was having trouble catching.

Steak. Fresh steak. Why was that important? Obviously it was fresh; there weren’t any preservation enchantments with Fillory’s magic on the fritz, but in addition to that, Eliot knew the difference in taste and there’d been quite a large heap of unprocessed leather in the forge.

A sneeze from Fen brought him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, excuse me! I’ve always spent all of spring sneezing, ever since I was a little girl. It’s the ragweed.” Which would explain why Fen had it all pulled up on the castle grounds. His wife reached for her cup of water, “The pollen gets  _ everywhere _ . I thought it might be better without magic, but I guess weeds grow fine without magical help.” She sighed.

Spring. That was it.

“Dint,” Eliot said, looking at the man across the rustic wooden table, “Why are we having fresh steak in the spring?” That didn’t make any sense. You waited until autumn to kill cattle, that way they were fat and strong. It made for better flavor. And Eliot doubted Dint had gone to the trouble on his behalf; the Fillorians were hospitable enough, but the food situation meant that it was more important to work with what they had than serve their High King five-course meals, and while Eliot had a refined palette, he drew the line at prioritizing his snobbery over people’s livelihoods.

Fresh steak, and a whole bunch of unprocessed leather, “... what happened to all the cows?” Because that was the other explanation: If an animal happened to die, or become too sick, then you could eat it out of season. But there was way more than one animal’s worth of leather in the forge.

“I didn’t know how to tell you and there was so much else going on-” Fen started, clearly prepared to launch into a speech after taking the care to preface it with enough hedging that Eliot’s ego couldn’t possibly be bruised. He’d have to talk to her about that. He didn’t mind flattery, but as he’d told her, he wasn’t running a cult, and didn’t consider the husbands in the Stepford Wives movie to be role models.

Dint, on the other hand, got straight to the point. “Wolf.” He grunted between bites of steak.

Okay. Wolf. That happened.

But what wolf was killing that many cows so quickly, and why was it something Fen wanted to tell him about? Eliot had seen Fen with a knife, and while the Fillorians didn’t have guns, Eliot would definitely bet on the Fillorians in a Fillorians vs. wolf match-up.

“Fen?” Eliot asked, turning to look at her, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s not exactly a normal wolf. Or a normal talking wolf.” Because in Fillory, of course the words ‘normal talking wolf’ weren’t a complete oxymoron. Fen inhaled, “It’s huge, and it’s not stopping with the cows.”

Oh goodie. Another problem to deal with.

“Okay, so how big are we talking?” Eliot asked cautiously. Fen shot her father a look.

“Don’t know.” Dint said, “Nobody’s seen it. It’s always got darkness around it. Best guess is about Fen’s height from paw to shoulder. Says it’ll kill until we give the land back.”

That… was a gigantic fucking wolf.

A gigantic, enchanted wolf. A gigantic, enchanted,  _ sentient _ wolf.

Of course it was.

“Well, fuck me.” Said Eliot.

***

“I don’t like it.” Fen said, pacing around the dining room. Dinner had ended hours ago, and the three of them had moved on to plotting. Of course Eliot wasn’t going to leave his father-in-law and his wife’s village to get eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. He was pretty sure that was also in the ‘basic human decency rules’ book.

Eliot watched her pace, “I know you don’t-” He said gently.

“It’s the best plan.” Dint said, causing his daughter to whirl around and glare at him with a look that would’ve made Eliot shrink if it had been directed at  _ him _ . Dint didn’t blink.

“Of course you’d be okay with it,” Fen accused her father, “You never wanted any of this-” She gestured between herself and Eliot, “To begin with!” Eliot really wished he’d stop learning about all the context and familial drama behind his own marriage after everyone else. It made him feel as though he were a chapter or two behind everyone. Fen continued, “What if Eliot  _ dies _ ? Don’t you  _ care _ ?”

“Wait, you care?” Eliot looked over at her. Fen hadn’t had any more choice in this than he had, and while she was more fond of the nuptial requirements than he was (to put it mildly), he could tell that the expectations that she be an obedient Barbie doll didn’t sit well.

In response to his question, Fen turned on  _ him _ . Yup. He definitely couldn’t look her in the eyes.

His wife’s ability to switch between sweet and terrifying was, in and of itself, sweet and terrifying.

“Of course I care!” She yelled.

Eliot nodded, needing a minute to swallow the lump in his throat, “Well, yes, I could die. But that’s why we have the… what did you call it?”

“Gilkin’s Suspension.” Dint said.

“Right,” Eliot said, “That. So it should keep me from dying quickly, right? If I get hurt, it’ll just pop me into a magically induced coma.” Just. Since when had his life reached the point where deliberately putting yourself into a coma was a ‘just’? Well, it beat dying for the 40th time, “And last long enough to get me to Chatwin’s Torrent. No harm in that.” Except for the part that if he was still in the wolf’s magic radius the Suspension probably wouldn’t work.

“I still don’t like it.” Fen said.

Eliot stood up and moved to take her by the shoulders, “I know, I know. Trust me, it’s not how I’d like to spend my evening either, but we can’t just let this thing keep  _ eating people _ .” He emphasized, “Besides, tell me you don’t at least like your part a little.” He smiled slightly, and though her eyes shone with unshed tears, she smiled back.

“I  _ do _ like my part.” She admitted.

***

The wolf came slightly before midnight. Eliot wouldn’t have thought it was possible to doze off while waiting in the middle of a pasture to confront a giant wolf, but his father-in-law had managed.  _ ‘I guess in addition to blade making, Dint has the magic talent of sleeping anywhere. That’d be nice. _ ’ Eliot reflected.

Dint hadn’t been lying about the darkness. It had taken Eliot some time to adjust to Fillory’s night after spending his life at Brakebills and in New York City. Electric lights didn’t exist in Fillory, so the deepness of the black was only cut through with moonlight and the flickering of torches as well as the occasional enchantment.

Even pre-industrial night was almost never truly dark, though, and that went doubly so in Fillory. Fillory had two moons, so there was nearly always some sort of moonlight to see by, and the air seemed to shimmer and collect the light from the unfamiliar stars to disperse it in a soft glitter across the ground.

This, though. This was true darkness. This was ‘can’t see your feet, can’t see your hand six inches from your face dark’. This was the dark that reminded humans of why they slept with night lights, why they told tales of the monsters that lurked in the dark. The darkness took the form of a sphere about 100 feet across that just… didn’t permit light to exist, with the exception of a piercing set of yellow eyes.

“Well, that’s creepy…” Eliot said under his breath.

He was beginning to regret this decision/plan.

Then his father-in-law, who’d woken up, gave him a nod. So much for giving up now. Eliot sighed quietly and made his way to his feet, feeling in the air for ambient magic. The Wellspring was fucked, and Fillory’s magic was going haywire (when it worked), but Earth had far less magic to work with than Fillory, and while the levels were low for Fillory, that wasn’t going to be a problem.

Eliot had drawn magic from the Antarctic ice to warm himself, from the currents of the air to maintain his shape as he flew. He’d used  _ droplets _ off the glaciers to orient himself in a blizzard with barely a foot of visibility, and had enough left over to refill the empty vodka bottle he’d slammed on Mayakovsky’s desk as he walked through the doors with ice on his eyelashes and in other places best left unmentioned.

Fillory might be magic, but Eliot was a magician.

“Hey! You! Yeah, you!” He shouted out to the wolf, or rather, in the wolf’s general direction since he couldn’t see it, “As the High King of Fillory, I demand you tell me who you are!”

Then the darkness enveloped him. The air itself was still, and Eliot felt nothing other than the occasional patch of fur moving against him. He saw nothing. He heard nothing, the footfalls of the beast silent on the ground.

He was so fucked.

“You want to know who I am?” The voice hissed at Eliot from the darkness, not coming from one source but rather emanating from the darkness itself.

“I am the fear you have forgotten. I am the child dragged into the forest, the widow frozen before man mastered fire. I am the reason you fear darkness and I am why mankind learned to run. I know your next question,” It continued, its movement only detectable by the barest of vibrations where its feet touched the ground, “I am here to end the reign of man, to remind you your flesh is soft and your eyes weak.”

Eliot paused. No more words. “Okay, that’s a really long name. I’m just going to go with Paul.  Speaking of nature, I’m pretty sure wolves don’t carry around portable darkness balls, so somebody’s been giving you magic. Now, I’ve got a pretty good idea who,” Eliot continued, counting his steps as he backed up towards the fence, “So I’m going to be magnanimous and offer you an opportunity to stop working for the Beast before we kill him. And you.”

His foot hit the wooden fence post, and the wolf laughed. Now he could feel something: Breath on his face.

Shit. This was a terrible idea. Eliot slammed his foot at the post behind him, sending vibrations rippling down the entire length of the worn wooden fence.

“So kind.” The wolf replied, “He also has an offer. Leave Fillory, Eliot Waugh of Brakebills, and never return. You do not need to die; you are irrelevant to our plans. Leave the others to their fate. Will you die for this place? Alone in the darkness for friends who care so little?”

It was interesting how he could go from terrified to angry in the span of a breath. 

“You know what?” Eliot asked, “I do have an answer for you, actually.”

“You can tell him that he can suck my cock. Again.” 

The wolf lunged and Eliot felt his right leg explode into pain as teeth clamped down; hearing the bones in his leg crunch as they broke into pieces under the force of the bite. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, Eliot felt the fence wobble.

And he counted. One. Two.

“A knife? Your wife wishes to defend you, even with a simple, pathetic throwing knife. That’s sweet.” If Eliot’s leg wasn’t being torn off his body, he’d probably be wondering how the wolf spoke when its mouth was occupied doing said tearing, “If futile.”

Yes. It was just a throwing knife.

But Fen had very,  _ very _ good aim.

And Eliot was telekinetic. 

A deep boom pierced the darkness as the knife broke the sound barrier, slamming into the wolf’s chest at nearly 800 miles per hour. By the time the metal made contact, the air had heated the knife until it glowed an angry red-white, turning the simple throwing knife into a projectile with enough kinetic energy and heat to make the United States military jealous.

The jaws loosened on Eliot’s leg, and he thought he felt the earth shake when the wolf fell, tipping onto its side with a pierced, knife shaped hole burnt clear into its side.

When the wolf died, so to did its darkness, leaving Eliot just enough time to look up at the foreign Fillorian sky and laugh at how one of the constellations looked like a giant dick before collapsing.

He did so love naps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody's wondering, they used the vibrations traveling up and down the fence to communicate. Eliot hit the fence, which told Fen where they were, and she hit the fence when she threw the knife so Eliot would know how to manipulate it.
> 
> Given how Brakebills shows us that a.) being good at magic requires a lot of math and b.) Mayakovsky hammers magic into them to the point of it being intuitive, I figured this was both possible and badass.


	6. Interlude 2: Quentin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin misplaces a deck of cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queliot sex! I mean, that's worth an A/N right?
> 
> And no, nothing bad happens.
> 
> It always bothers me when members of marginalized groups are all assumed to have the exact same experiences, so have some intra-queer discussion.

Quentin was an amazing kisser. Eliot had thought about what it would be like to kiss Quentin for a long time before they actually had, and he’d been  _ really _ off the mark. He’d thought Q would kiss hesitantly, and make those cute clumsy mistakes some boys made. Endearing. That was the word he would have used. Instead, it had turned out that Quentin was a fantastic kisser, and God, could that boy do things with his tongue.

Things Eliot rather enjoyed, even if his enjoyment was limited to the dream realm. It was always welcome to slip into the world of dreams and find himself with Quentin straddling him, frantically pulling at Eliot’s pants as though waiting one more second for Eliot’s cock to be exposed would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.

Eliot moaned softly when Quentin pulled away, ignoring the ‘shh’ that Q gave him in favor of giving the other man his best puppy dog eyes. Another interesting thing that most people wouldn’t have known about Q was that he was capable of looking devious, and that was the expression that Quentin wore when he slowly moved his face downwards, letting his breath play across Eliot’s bare skin and making Eliot shiver.

He’d been so focused on Quentin’s mouth that he’d forgotten to pay attention to his hands, so when one started stroking between his thighs, each stroke closer to Eliot’s hard cock than the last, all Eliot could do was let out a small sound that sounded disappointingly like a squeak but that Quentin properly interpreted as encouragement, wrapping a hand around Eliot’s dick and moving it in a rhythm that was somehow perfectly calibrated to be fast enough to build Eliot’s excitement but slow enough not to release it on accident.

And now Eliot was so focused on his hands, he’d forgotten about Q’s mouth. That mouth. The mouth that Q lowered to Eliot’s chest, taking in one of Eliot’s nipples and sucking it gently, tongue switching between stillness and movement in harmony with the hand on his cock.

Wait, what? Eliot hated having his nipples sucked during sex. Since when did  _ his _ sexual fantasies involve things that he didn’t like?

Unless… 

Then Quentin  _ bit _ . Sure, it was a little nibble, but it was still a bite, and Eliot let out a small yelp of pain conveying ‘do not want’. Q gave him a confused look (God, he was adorable when he was confused. Like a very bangable puppy. Okay, now he was starting to sound like Bambi). 

“What’s wrong?” Quentin asked, tucking some of his hair behind his ear, suddenly self-conscious again, “You always like it when I do that.”   
  
“Um, I’ve never liked that.” Eliot corrected him, “Wait, always? We’ve had sex  _ once _ .”

There was a moment of very awkward silence.

“Eliot?” Quentin asked in shock, clearing his throat. As though it was a surprise. Q scrambled off Eliot so quickly that Eliot had to check to make sure he wasn’t on fire. (You’d think he’d know, but honestly, you’d be surprised, especially when magic got involved.)

Wait a second. ‘Always liked it.’ A sex dream that was filled to the brim with awkward. Quentin being surprised by Eliot despite clearly knowing who he was.

_ ‘You moron, this isn’t  _ your _ wet dream. It’s  _ Quentin’s. _ ’ _

And one that apparently happened more than once. A lot more than once, given how comfortable Q had been with the situation.

“Hi, Q.” Eliot said, for lack of coming up with anything better. Quentin’s awkward was catching. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, “Are you always this awkward in your own sex dreams? I tend to prefer going full master lover and god of sex in mine.” Eliot teased Quentin gently. Q, for his part, was Q about it, rubbing a hand over his face and hair and then looking everywhere except at Eliot with that expression he had when he wanted the floor to swallow them whole.

Eliot took the opportunity to admire the view for a moment. Which turned out to be the wrong move, because Quentin moved from embarrassed silence to babbling apologies  _ really _ quickly, “Shit, Eliot, I didn’t mean to- this isn’t what it looks like-”

“It isn’t?” Eliot said, leaning back, “That’s disappointing, because it looked like you were dreaming of us having some  _ really _ good sex until you tried that weird nipple thing.”

“It’s not weird,” Quentin replied defensively out of reflex before realizing that it meant he had just admitted to it being his dream and then he hugged his arms around him and Eliot could almost see him starting to build up his mental walls.  The thing about Q was that he was always waiting for everything he did to fall apart.

It was one of the things they had in common.

Eliot slid off the bed and approached Quentin slowly, “Whoa, hey, Q.” Eliot said, “It’s not bad. If anything it’s kind of a relief. And a boost to the ego. Among other things.” Eliot looked down at his cock because yeah, if he was honest, the idea of Q dreaming about him and getting off on it was hot as hell.

Lowering his arm from where it was obscuring his face, Quentin searched Eliot’s eyes, “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Eliot pulled Q back to the bed, but instead of restarting their earlier activities, he laid next to Q and let the other man rest with his head on Eliot’s shoulder, “I worried you regretted it, or that I took advantage of you, or you were only into it because you were drunk, or that you really wanted to sleep with Margo and I was just there so you sort of held your nose and went with it, since you’re straight-”

It was exceptionally rare for Quentin to interrupt anyone, and for him to interrupt by snorting with a laugh that he muffled into Eliot’s shoulder had not been the reaction that Eliot expected. It never felt good to be laughed at, but that was balanced out by how much Eliot liked it when Quentin laughed. Q had a good laugh; Eliot wished Quentin could be more comfortable with being happy. He liked happy Quentin. 

“I’m not straight, you idiot.” Q said once he stopped laughing, “What, just because I spend my money on first editions of Fillory books instead of a vest collection-”

“Hey!” Eliot objected.

“And I don’t walk around plastered in rainbows or with a button that says ‘Hello, I’m Quentin Coldwater, I like men and women’ doesn’t mean I’m straight, Eliot.”

Okay. That was a fair point.

“It was more the girlfriend situation,” Eliot said delicately. He didn’t know what the Q and Alice situation was at the moment.

“I’m bisexual, Eliot.” Quentin said with the patience of somebody who had answered the unspoken question approximately a million times. Or basically how Eliot felt whenever he had to explain  _ again _ that just because he was gay, and fabulous, it didn’t mean that he had an encyclopedic knowledge of interior design.

He couldn’t help but feel a little hurt, though. “You never told me.” Eliot said. By which he meant,  _ ‘I flirted with you all the time and you never let me know you were into it even though I was clearly interested.’ _

“Of course I didn’t!” Quentin explained, “Have you  _ met _ me? I  _ literally _ only managed to get together with Alice because we weren’t human at the time. I’m King Quentin the Moderately Socially Maladjusted, not King Quentin the Great at Expressing his Feelings.”

Well, that was true enough. Eliot had to smile.

“So it’s honestly that, and it’s not because this-” He gestured between them, “Would be too hard and being with Alice is, you know, normal?”

“Again, Eliot, the first time we had sex, we were foxes. I don’t know what kind of upbringing you had, but that’s way outside of my reference of normal.” Quentin said, “I was with Alice because I love Alice. She’s… God, she’s actually amazing if you got to know her, El,” He said, “She’s smart, and driven and when I’m with her I feel like I don’t have to question every single decision I make. I want to be better when I’m with her.”

“That… sounds great.” Eliot said half-heartedly.

“I wasn’t done,” Quentin said, shifting so he was sitting on top of Eliot again, “You’re like… when I’m with you, it’s okay to be me. I can be awkward, and broken, and have no fashion sense,” Eliot smiled, “And that’s okay. I don’t have to pretend that I’m someone I’m not for people to like me-”

Eliot had to react to that, “Never.” He affirmed.

“You do what you want and feel what you want no matter what the world says about it. You’re brave.” That wasn’t an adjective Eliot would’ve picked to describe himself, “When I’m with Alice, I want to improve myself. When I’m with you, I want to accept myself.” Quentin looked into Eliot’s eyes, “I can’t rank that, Eliot.”

Well. That was something.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand,” Eliot responded, pressing a kiss to Q’s forehead, “I’m pretty sure Alice is like, my anti-type, but thanks for that, Q.”

A few minutes passed in silence.

“It doesn’t seem like either of us is going to wake up any time soon.” Eliot said.

Quentin nodded, “I may or may not have stolen a Xanax from the infirmary the last time I was there.” Eliot snorted. Q was full of surprises.

A few more minutes passed. Sitting naked in bed with Q was amazing, but Eliot had never been much of a cuddler. What were you supposed to  _ do _ when you weren’t talking? Just  _ sit _ ? “Yeah, I’m bored.” Eliot admitted.

He was rewarded with another one of Quentin’s laughs, “Oh, well, we can’t have that.” Q said.

“Hey, there’s no need for sarcasm,” Eliot responded.

“Who said I was being sarcastic?” Quentin shot back, propping himself up on his side and sliding his fingers down Eliot’s hip, “The last time you were bored we ended up in a crazy ghost house. I’d rather stay here.” His fingers moved inward and Eliot inhaled sharply. There was a fine line between reticence and teasing, and Q was stomping all over it, “Think we can figure out something? I might have a deck of cards around here somewhere.”

Eliot had done many a kinky thing in his life (there weren’t many objects he  _ couldn’t _ figure out how to use in a sexual context), but while Quentin curling his hand around Eliot’s cock was simple, damn if it wasn’t the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years, “Q?” He croaked. Or moaned. It was a bit of both really.

Very off-brand, if he was honest. 

But fuck being on-brand if it meant that Quentin’s hand was moving, if it meant that Quentin was leaning over him and Quentin was pressing his mouth to Eliot’s. Eliot had gotten a lot of handjobs in his life, but not from Quentin Coldwater. Not with Quentin’s hair brushing his shoulder as the other man pressed kisses to Eliot’s neck or with Quentin’s moaning when Eliot reached out to reciprocate.  Q shivering in pleasure when Eliot touched his cock, Q’s unself-conscious gasp and his exhaled ‘oh God, Eliot’ when Eliot used the hand not wrapped around Quentin’s cock to tease his thighs and balls with feather-light touches.

Eliot had no problem forgoing dignity and begging Quentin not to stop touching him, or jerking his hips up when Q did… something with his hands that Eliot had never experienced before (it turned out sleight of hand was good for more than card tricks). Not if it got him this.

“Fuck, Quentin.” Eliot swallowed, burying his head into Q’s shoulder to stifle what he wasn’t sure would be a moan or a scream when Quentin’s hands, warm and skilled - a Magician’s hands, played his body like an instrument and plucked a string that sent pleasure reverberating from the tip of his cock up through the crown of his head.

Q’s breath was hot in Eliot’s ear, “I don’t know where the cards are. Is this okay?” Like it was really a question.

Eliot laughed, “Yeah, Q. This is fine.”


End file.
